


Between a Crucifix & the Hollywood Sign

by mountainsbeyondmountains



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, One Shot, Petyr & Sansa are married in this but I'm not going to tag it as a relationship, mentions panic attacks & PTSD, set somewhere in the southwest of America?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 11:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17303417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsbeyondmountains/pseuds/mountainsbeyondmountains
Summary: When Jon was younger, he used to believe that he’d have already met his soulmate by the age he is now.Title from Florence + the Machine





	Between a Crucifix & the Hollywood Sign

**1.**

“Is this really necessary?” Jon asks as they secure the blindfold around his eyes.

Grenn, Pyp, and Edd all mumble apologies, and Jon’s known them long enough that he can tell they’re genuinely sorry. Just not sorry enough to untie the damned blindfold.

“It’s nothing personal,” Grenn explains. “But the boss is very-”

“Paranoid,” Pyp interjects.

“I was going to say _cautious._ He doesn’t do things by halves.”

Jon listens as Grenn settles in the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition. He feels the truck roll over the rocky earth, then accelerate onto the smooth highway. He jostles slightly against Edd and Pyp, who are seated on either side of him in the backseat. They’re a precaution, meant to stop Jon from ripping off the blindfold and learning the route to wherever the hell it is that they’re going. Jon takes comfort in the fact that he can take both of them, if he needs to. He’s fought beside them, he knows the ways they think and move, and he catches himself strategizing— _first get Pyp, he’s less observant, one good blow to the solar plexus then hit his head against the door…_

He stops himself. These men are the closest thing he has to brothers. They wouldn’t betray him.

Grenn spins the radio dial. Nothing but static and a faint sermon warning them to repent before it’s too late. “I always forget how shitty the signal is out here,” he sighs.

“Why are we driving all the way out to the badlands anyway?” Jon asks.

“With important work like this, the boss likes to meet people face to face. Make sure they’re trustworthy,” Pyp explains.

“Who is _the boss_ , exactly? What’s his name?”

“Nobody knows,” Edd says, grim as ever.

Grenn elaborates, “Everyone calls him Littlefinger. Well, we call him _sir_ to his face, of course.”

“Just wait until you see his house, Jon. It’s fucking huge, like a castle, and it’s got a pool. I figure that maybe if I keep my head down, do what I’m told, I can work my way up, live someplace like that someday,” Pyp says.

“That won’t happen,” Edd assures him. “We’re nobodies.”

“Well, how did Littlefinger get so rich?” Jon asks.

“He owns just about every brothel in the southwest, deals with the cartel across the border, rigs election. The governor, the attorney’s office, the cops are all in his pocket. Rumor has it he’s even got connections with the feds.”

“I heard he got his start cooking the books for a strip club.”

“Yeah, that’s how he met his old lady. She used to be a stripper.”

“Makes sense. She’s about thirty years younger than him, and _smoking._ What I wouldn’t give for a night alone with her,” Grenn wolf-whistles. 

“Littlefinger would make sure that would be your last night on earth,” Edd replies. “But don’t talk about Sansa that way. She’s a nice girl. Always remembers my name, asks me how I’m doing when she sees me. I feel bad for her, I really do.”

“Why? She’s living the high life.”

“I’m sure she knew what she was getting into. I mean, she’s got to be in it for the money, right?”

“Unless his finger isn’t _that_ little.”

Edd doesn’t waver. “I still feel bad for her. She and Littlefinger can’t possibly be soulmates.”

That starts Pyp and Grenn howling like jackals. They call Edd a _hopeless romantic_ and tell him that soulmates are nothing more than a myth anyway. When their laughter dies down, though, Jon asks, “How do you know they’re not soulmates, Edd?”

“Littlefinger hasn’t got a soul,” his friend answers sagely.

 

 

They stop at some kind of security gate where Grenn is made to state their names and purpose. His answer must be satisfactory, because they’re permitted to traverse a long, winding driveway. When they finally arrive at their mysterious destination, Pyp rips the blindfold off. Jon stumbles out of the truck and has to blink hard against the noonday sun, which is as blinding as an interrogation spotlight. But eventually he regains his bearings and looks around to take in his surroundings.

Pyp was wrong, Jon thinks. Sure, there’s a swimming pool, and a mansion, but it’s more of a fortress than a castle. A tall fence encloses the property, and beyond that there’s nothing for miles and miles. Just a vast expanse of desert stretching until the earth and sky kiss on the horizon.

Jon hates knowing that there’s nowhere to run, should his luck turn. As they approach the house, he finds himself wishing that Ghost were here. His dog would be able to sense his silent worry, and would rub his soft head under Jon’s hand to reassure him. But of course he can’t bring Ghost. It would be a mistake to show any weakness here.

They’re greeted by a woman Jon at first thinks might be Littlefinger’s wife, but she instead introduces herself as Ros, his personal assistant.

“Pleasure to see you, like always,” Grenn says to her. Ros stares disdainfully at his mud-spattered jeans, at Pyp’s untied shoelaces, at the logo for some obscure punk band on Edd’s shirt, and at Jon’s long, wild hair.

“Don’t touch anything,” she instructs before beckoning them to follow her. Her high heels click against the immaculate floor, and the sound echoes loud as gunfire. Maybe the house isn’t a castle or a fortress, but rather a mausoleum. It’s as cool and dark and opulent as some ancient king’s tomb- and just as lifeless.

Ros stops in front of a door- bulletproof, Jon assumes. She types a long access card into a keypad on the wall, and the door slides open. Jon steps into the inner sanctum. The center of gravity which this whole criminal enterprise revolves around.

It’s an office. Windowless, tastefully decorated, bigger than Jon’s entire house, but otherwise ordinary. A man sits behind a desk, his face obscured by shadow. Ros gestures to Jon that he should sit in the chair opposite the man, and when he does, the hidden face is revealed.

When his friends spoke of Littlefinger with equal parts fear and reverence, Jon had imagined the name belonged to someone intimidating. Someone grizzled, scarred, tattooed. Someone who had been swallowed alive by life itself, but managed to defeat the beast from within its own gullet. Jon had imagined someone taller than himself, at the very least. But even sitting, he finds himself looking down at Littlefinger. The man is diminutive, dressed in a slick suit, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed. Every aspect of his appearance announces that he has no intention of getting his hands dirty, and when Jon reaches across the desk to shake that hand, the skin is soft. Littlefinger’s voice, when he speaks, is even softer. “Jon Snow, I presume. I’ve been eager to meet you. Your… associates speak so highly of you.”

Pyp is quick to say, “Yeah, Jon, we told him you’re a real stand-up guy.”

“Real stand-up guys tend not to kill people for a living,” Littlefinger says. He opens a desk drawer, takes out a file, leafs through its contents. “I had my people conduct some research. You were in the army for seven years, Mr. Snow?”

Jon nods.

“Excelled at almost every task in boot camp, quickly rose to the rank of captain, worked on a black ops task force, saved the life of your commanding officer, came home with plenty of shiny medals. What prompted the career change?”

“When I was in the army, I killed whoever my superiors told me to kill. I do the same thing now. Only the pay’s a lot better,” Jon says.

“So you won’t suffer any kind of… ethical qualms? I don’t need to worry about any sudden changes of heart?”

“I’ve been doing this kind of work for nearly three years, sir. You don’t have to worry.”

“Yes, I examined the work you conducted for Mance Rayder, and I have to admit it is outstanding. So clean, so precise. In the past I’ve dealt with many… hot-headed individuals. Sadists. But you, Mr. Snow, are a true professional.”

Ros hands Jon a small black burner phone. “Consider this the beginning of a trial run. When this phone rings, I expect you to answer promptly. All the pertinent details will be provided to you. Only call back when the job is complete. You’ve already been told how much I’m willing to pay for your services?”

Again, Jon nods.

“Man of few words,” Littlefinger says. “I have one last question for you, Mr. Snow. Have you any family?”

“None.”

“What about a girlfriend? Surely a young man such as yourself isn’t entirely alone.”

“No girlfriend.” Jon learned his lesson after what happened to Ygritte. He won’t make the same mistake twice.

Littlefinger seems almost disappointed by this response- but Jon must be reading him wrong, because the man asks no further questions.

Ros says, “If you gentlemen would follow me out, please.” The door opens, and his friends file out, but Jon takes one last look at the office before leaving. Littlefinger has once again retreated to the darkest corner of the room. Jon is suddenly reminded of the creatures which live on the undersides of rocks and spend their whole lives fleeing from daylight.

They’re led back to the front door and curtly dismissed. Pyp waves to Ros, and says he hopes she has a nice day, but she slams the door in his face before he can finish the sentiment.

Grenn watches her walk away through the window, his gaze fixed on her like a fly stuck to a spiderweb. “That girl looks like she ought to be coming out of the ocean, naked, standing on a seashell,” he says.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Pyp scowls.

“You know, like that famous painting!”

“No, I don’t know. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well, it’s not my fault that you’re culturally ignorant-”

Edd’s voice cuts through their bickering. He’s wandered over to the side of the swimming pool and calls out, “Jon! There’s someone I want you to meet!”

Jon can see a disturbance at the surface, the water glittering like shards of glass. Then a girl elegantly rises out of the pool. “Jon, this is Sansa. Sansa, this is my friend Jon,” Edd says.

 _So this is Littlefinger’s wife,_ Jon thinks, now understanding the longing with which Grenn had spoken. This girl looks like a mirage, too good to be true, but when Jon reaches out to shake her hand, she’s real. He looks up, at her eyes-

 

 

When Jon was younger, he used to believe that he’d have already met his soulmate by the age he is now. Then when he met Ygritte, he kept waiting for the world to bloom into full color, because surely this girl was the great love of his life, but it remained stubbornly monochrome. By the time he buried her, he’d given up on the idea of soulmates, and resigned himself to a lifetime of seeing in black and white but now-

 

 

Sansa’s eyes are the same color as the water below her, and the sky above her. Her hair is shining in the sunlight. Her swimsuit is still white but her skin- Jon doesn’t know what color to call her skin, he just knows he wants to _touch_ it.

Sansa is staring at his face. Jon has never had anyone look at him like this before. He’s never had anyone drink him in like she does now, like she could gaze at him forever and still find something to be astonished about.

He’s still holding her hand. But then Edd clears his throat, as if to remind them of his presence, and Sansa recoils like she’s been shocked. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m so sorry, but I have to- I have to go. Right now. I’m sorry. It was nice to see you, Edd. And it was, it was very nice to meet your friend.”

Jon watches his soulmate walk away from him. His hand is still wet from where she touched him, the water transferred from her skin to his, so he raises his hand to his face. He presses it to his brow like he’s checking for a fever.

“Damn it, Jon,” Edd says. “You scared her away.”

 

**2.**

That night, the black cell phone rings. Jon picks up promptly.

He discovers just how bright blood really is.

 

 

**3.**

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Jon asks.

Davos Seaworth looks up from his crossword puzzle. He takes off his reading glasses and caps his pen, as if the right answer to this query demands his full attention.

There’s no one to eavesdrop on their conversation. There are no other customers at Castle Black, not as this hour. It’s why Jon likes to come here so much. He hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in years, but the nightmares have only gotten worse since he moved south and began working for Littlefinger. He’s grateful to have found Castle Black- the diner is open from twenty-four hours a day, and is only a few blocks from the little house he rents. Davos, the short-order cook who always works the graveyard shift, makes a mean cup of coffee despite missing a few fingers, lets Ghost curl up between the stools at the counter, and doesn’t ask too many questions about what demons keep Jon awake.

Most nights they sit in comfortable silence, Jon drinking his coffee, Davos solving his crosswords. But the question of soulmates has been nagging Jon for months now, like the refrain of a song he just can’t get out of his head, and he can think of no one else to ask. Grenn and Pyp would only laugh at him, and as for Edd- Jon _just_ got him to stop asking about _why do you think Sansa didn’t want to talk to us, did I do something wrong, we usually have nice conversations._ The last thing he wants to do is arouse any more suspicion.

So that leaves Davos, who says, “I didn’t used to. Until I met mine.”

“You started seeing in color when you met her?”

“When I met _him_ ,” Davos corrects him. “And I stopped seeing in color when he died.”

“Oh- I’m sorry,” Jon says. He should be better at offering sympathy, he thinks, considering how many people he’s known who have died.

Davos waves away the condolences. “So you’ve met your soulmate. Why are you here, instead of with them right now?”

“She’s married.”

“So was mine. Do you love this girl, whoever she is?”

“I’ve never even said a word to her.” Sansa must’ve thought he was an idiot, unable to keep his jaw from hanging open long enough to say _hello._

“But clearly you’re thinking about her.”

Jon doubts that Sansa is thinking about him. She’s probably sound asleep, in bed next to her husband, her dreams as immaculate as the castle she lives in. “She’s better off without me,” he says. “She deserves more than I can give her.”

“Well, you seem pretty decent to me. You always leave a good tip when you’re done here. But if you’re hell-bent on spending the rest of your life with only that mutt of yours for company, I won’t dissuade you.”

Jon protests, “Ghost isn’t a mutt. He’s half-wolf, and he’s very smart.” At the sound of his name, Ghost rises to his feet and nudges his head against Jon’s thigh. Jon gives him a pat on the head, then says, “I guess what I really want to know is- did your life get better after you met your soulmate? Did things become, I don’t know, easier?”

“Well, I loved him,” Davos says. “But we didn’t exactly ride off together into the sunset, the end, happily ever after. I mean, he taught me to love crosswords. Every time I finish one, I think of him. But he was the also the person who cut off the fingers on my left hand.”

 

 

**4.**

When Jon was younger, he used to believe that when he met his soulmate, they would ride off into the sunset. The end. Happily ever after.

When Jon was younger, he used to be a goddamn idiot.

He meets his soulmate and things don’t become better, or easier. Things stay the same.

The black cell phone rings. He picks up promptly. He kills who he’s told to kill. He’s clean. He’s precise. He’s a professional. He makes money he doesn’t know how to spend. He takes Ghost for long walks. He drinks coffee at Castle Black, and leaves good tips. He goes for drinks with Grenn, and Pyp, and Edd, and they talk about the old days like they didn’t hate every minute of when those days were new. He goes to the pool, and swims lap, but spends too much time submerged, motionless, just staring out at the depths, which are the same color as Sansa’s eyes. He tries to sleep, and rarely succeeds, but when he does, he dreams.

In his dreams, the only thing louder than the gunfire is the screaming. He stumbles through a battlefield. Smoke obscures the way out, but fire illuminates the blood on his hands. When he tries to wash it away, it turns into red hair, the strands running through his fingers. He cradles Ygritte in his arms, and she’s dying, and it’s his fault, but when she takes her last breath, she transforms into Sansa. She’s dead as well.

It’s still his fault.

His days are a long, endless road, surrounded by nothing as far as the eye can see, receding into the desert, and it occurs to Jon that _this is the rest of my life-_

Until-

 

The black cell phone rings. He picks up promptly, says, “Yes?”

“Jon Snow? It’s Sansa.”

 

**5.**

The Mockingbird would be an excellent place to kill someone, Jon thinks. It would be easy to spike someone’s drink, or to lure them into one of the many dark corners, or to even get close to them on the dance floor, inflict a fatal wound, and flee before anyone noticed. Everyone is oblivious- drunk, high, desperate to prove how much fun they’re having.

_It’s not safe to talk on the phone. Can you come to the Mockingbird tomorrow, half past eleven?Look for me at the bar. I have to talk to you about something. I have a job for you._

Of course Jon knows that this could be a trap. It’s very likely some kind of test, engineered by Littlefinger, designed to test his loyalty. He could be the prey instead of the predator tonight. But despite all his instincts telling him to go home, Jon stays at the bar. He scans the nightclub, watching for Sansa and counting every possible exit.

A streak of silver catches his eye. _There, at the top of the stairs, heading this way._ She’s wearing a dress that looks like it’s made of liquid metal. The strobe lights cast her face different colors, flashing scarlet, vermillion, cerulean, violet, all of the shades Jon can now appreciate. She doesn’t look at him as she approaches the bar and nods at the bartender, who seems to recognize her and immediately begins mixing a drink. But she stands right next to Jon, close enough that he could touch her if he wanted to. Close enough that she could sink a knife right between his ribs, if that’s her aim. She could have a blade hidden underneath that silver dress, or someone in one of those distant dark corners could have a gun trained on him from afar, or maybe the bartender will slip him something, or…

Jon suddenly can’t breathe. It’s like there’s some python wrapped around his chest, constricting him, intent on squeezing the life out of him. His knees are weak, and his heart is staccato. The lights blur into a kaleidoscope. He can see Sansa’s lips moving but the music overwhelms her words.

Suddenly he can feel something cool on his flushed cheeks- Sansa is cupping his face in her hands. “Jon, Jon, look at me. It’s okay,” she soothes, forcing him to look at her, just at her. “Come one, let’s go somewhere quieter.” She takes him by the hand and says something to the bartender, who lets them past and through a door marked STAFF ONLY. The music immediately dies down, and there’s a gust of wind as they step into an empty alleyway.

Jon puts leans against the brick wall, grateful to touch something solid. He takes several deep breaths, and his heart rate starts to slow. He feels more himself, here where it’s cool and bright and quiet. But he also feels embarrassed, and he says, “I’m sorry about that, it doesn’t happen when I’m working, I swear-”

“Don’t apologize,” Sansa tells him. “Looked like you were having a panic attack.”

“Yeah. I’m not normally like that, it’s just- I don’t do well in situations like that, with the crowds and the noise and the flashing lights. But I’m fine. Really.”

Sansa says, “I get them too. I mean, mine are brought on by different triggers. But I know that when you’re in the middle of one, you think you’re going to die, so you don’t need to pretend— I don’t know, you don’t need to act so stoic.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“Does, um- does your husband own this place?” Jon points to the wall of the Mockingbird.

Sansa nods. “Yeah. That’s why we had to meet here. I have a hard time— it’s difficult for me to go out. My husband likes to keep me safe at home. But he also likes to show me off, and he has an important meeting tonight, so I appealed to his vanity for a few hours of freedom.”

“And why are you approaching me with a job? Why not him?”

“He doesn’t know about this. He can’t know about this.”

“Who’s the mark?”

“Ramsay Bolton. I can tell you where he lives, his habits, everything I know about him.”

“Why do you want him dead?”

“You never ask my husband that question when he hires you,” Sansa accuses. “I want you to kill Ramsay, and I can pay whatever you want. It doesn’t matter _why_ , I just want him dead.”

“Listen, the money doesn’t matter. You’re asking me to risk my career, to risk my reputation, to risk my _life._ What do you think your husband is going to do to me if he finds out about this?”

“He won’t find out.”

“Meeting you like this was a mistake,” Jon says. “Find someone else to do the job.” He moves past her, intent on leaving the alleyway and heading home, but Sansa grabs a hold of his arm. She steps in front of him and before Jon can try to guess what she’s about to try, she kisses him.

She kisses him like this is not the first time, but the thousandth. Like she already knows exactly what he likes, how to provoke him, what to do to make him wrap an arm around her waist and pull her flush against him. Jon only hesitates for a moment before parting his lips for her, and he lets her take whatever it is she wants. His back hits the brick wall of the Mockingbird, and though he wants nothing more than to keep kissing her, he’s brought back to reality. He breaks the kiss. Sansa’s mouth chases his, and she licks the curve of his bottom lip before she breathes, “Do you want me to fuck you? I’ll do it, if you kill him for me.”

Jon grabs her by her shoulders, pushes her a safe distance away before he says, “ _No._ ”

She twists out of his grasp, retreats to the opposite wall. In the harsh glow of the streetlight, she suddenly looks less like a mirage and more like a girl, younger than himself, her cheeks pink under the shimmer, her dress too thin to be out here at night. “That’s what got me into this mess anyway, I suppose. Fucking the wrong man.”

“Your husband?

“No,” Sansa says. “Though I suppose you’re right, in a way. But I meant Ramsay.”

“So, what, you stepped out on your husband, had an affair, and this man, Ramsay- is he trying to blackmail you, or something? Is that why you want me to kill him? Is that why Littlefinger can’t know?”

“My husband knows what happened with Ramsay. He’s the one who arranged it.” Sansa twists her fingers together as she speaks, like she’s trying to comfort herself. “Ramsay’s father, Roose, is an important man. My husband approached him with an offer. An alliance. Territory expansion. Roose was reluctant, but his son took a liking to me, so he made a counteroffer. He’d make the deal, if I spent the night with Ramsay. Littlefinger, as you call him, agreed.”

“What kind of man sells his wife for a business deal?”

“It was just one night. That’s what he said to me. Just one night. But Ramsay… wasn’t gentle.”

Jon flexes his hand in a fist- he wants to hit something, to feel something break. But instead he slowly releases it, just as he releases a shuddering breath. “I’ll do it,” he says.

“Thank you,” Sansa says. “I’m not totally sure how to pay you- how does my husband usually do it?”

“I’ll do it for free. And I’ll kill him, too. Your husband _._ If you want.”

Sansa shakes her head. “You’re not that good. No one is. He’ll kill you if you try.” She gives him one last unreadable look before returning inside the Mockingbird.

 

 

**6.**

His uncle Aemon used to swear that vinegar was always the best way to remove dried blood from clothes. Uncle Aemon could have never imagined for what purpose Jon would put that piece of housekeeping lore to use, but Jon finds himself grateful for the wisdom anyway. He pours a liberal amount onto the stains of his work clothes before throwing a load in the wash. Then the black cell phone rings.

Jon has to damn near lunge across the room to pick it up before the second ring. “Yes?”

“Thank you,” Sansa tells him. Her voice is suffused with something new- for the first time, she actually sounds how a girl her age ought to. Carefree. Happy.

“You don’t need to thank me.” Jon usually finds no joy in what he does- he kills because he’s good at it, that’s all. And killing Ramsay didn’t inspire happiness in him, the way it does with Sansa. But he felt _something_ , as he drove his fist into the man’s face until Ramsay choked on his own blood. Jon wonders if that’s justice, if that’s how people who devote their lives to saving the world feel every day.

“Would you like to meet somewhere? My husband’s been invited to the funeral, and he’ll be gone until tomorrow morning. I want to celebrate. Sorry, that sounds macabre, but-”

“All right,” Jon says. He knows it’s a stupid risk, but he can’t resist Sansa’s new infectious hope.

“Really?”

“Really.” He names the time and place.

 

“What’s a seven letter synonym for _red_?” Davos inquires.

Jon is about to remind the old man for the thousandth time that he’s no good at crosswords, but someone answers the question. “Crimson,” Sansa says as she walks into Castle Black. She stops, uncertain, and wraps her grey cardigan more tightly around herself as Davos gives her a long look.

“It fits,” he says, scribbling the word onto the page. “Thanks.”

Ghost pads out from underneath the table Jon’s chosen and walks over to inspect Sansa. Jon expects her to be frightened- girls usually are, when they meet Ghost. Hell, the vast majority of people are when they meet Ghost. Jon commands his dog to _get back here,_ and apologizes to Sansa, but she says, “I don’t mind. He’s such a handsome boy, oh, aren’t you a handsome boy?” She crouches down to properly scratch behind Ghost’s ears while he licks at her face.

“He’s not usually so affectionate with strangers,” Jon says. Sansa sits down across from him, and Ghost stays by her side, resting his head on her knee.

“Maybe he doesn’t think I’m a stranger,” she says.

Davos comes over to the table, asks, “Now what’s a lady like you doing here with a guttersnipe like Snow?”

“It’s a business meeting,” Jon quickly says. Sansa hides her grin by turning to gaze out the window.

“Oh, a _business meeting._ Wish I had that kind of business,” Davos mutters. “Well, what can I get you?”

Sansa places her order, and as soon as Davos is back in the kitchen, out of earshot, she says, “How did the job go?”

“It was fine. I took care of everything.”

“Are you all right?”

No one has ever asked Jon if he’s _all right_ after a job before, not even Ygritte. He nods, and takes a sip of his coffee. Sansa suddenly gasps, and he’s not sure why, until he remembers the bruised knuckles on his right hand. “Is that from—?”

“Yeah.” He remembers her words in the alleyway, and adds, “I wasn’t gentle.”

Sansa presses her fingers to her lips for a moment, then reaches out and brushes Jon’s knuckles, his hand still wrapped around the mug. “Thank you,” she whispers. Then she returns her hand to her lap, straightens, and says more clearly, “Do you come here a lot? I mean- oh, God, that sounds like a sleazy pick-up line, but I just… I want to know more about your life.”

“I come here when I can’t sleep,” Jon tells her.

“You have insomnia?”

“Pretty bad, yeah.”

“Me, too. I hope it’ll get better, though, now that- well, you know. But that’s one of the things Ithink about, when I’m lying in bed awake. Wondering what you do all day. You come across as very mysterious.”

“No, I’m just boring.” Jon laughs to cover the sudden flare in his chest: _she thinks about me?_

Sansa asks, “Well, where are you from?”

“Up north, near the border.”

“Oh my God, me too. I miss the cold.”

“Yeah, I still can’t get used to walking outside in a t-shirt in the middle of December. Doesn’t feel right.”

“It _doesn’t!_ ” Sansa agrees. “On snow days, when they’d cancel school, my siblings and I would spend the whole day outside, sledding, building this elaborate tunnels and igloos, trekking through the woods. My mom would always have hot chocolate waiting for us when we got back.”

“Do you go back often? Visit your family?”

It’s as if Sansa’s smile has been slapped off her face. “My family’s dead. I didn’t even go back for the funerals. I haven’t been north for… coming on five years now. My husband doesn’t like the cold.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says to her. What else is there to say?

“I don’t really want to talk about it. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course, whatever you want. But… you said five years? You can’t be any older than I am. How old were you when you got married?”

“Nineteen.” She says it quickly, quietly.

The bruises on Jon’s knuckles twinge as he makes an unconscious fist. Sansa doesn’t miss the motion- and her voice is fierce instead of hushed, as she tells him, “Don’t feel sorry for me. I couldn’t bear it if you felt sorry for me. I made my bed, and I’ll lie on its bloody silk sheets.”

“But you were only nineteen. Sansa, he took advantage of you-”

“No, Petyr loves me very much, he really does,” she insists. But she doesn’t meet his eyes as she says it, and then she sighs, “You’re not supposed to know his name.”

“I won’t tell anyone. But my earlier offer still stands. If you want.”

She shakes her head, gathers her purse, knits her hands together in a nervous gesture as she stands to leave. Ghost whines when she rises, moves between her and the door, looks at her with begging eyes. Sansa gives him one last pat on the head. She asks Jon, “Do you miss home? Do you miss the north?”

The sudden change in subject nearly gives him whiplash, and leaves him unable to answer with anything but honesty. He nods.

“You should go back. Find some nice girl. Be happy.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he tells her. And he supposes that will be that, the epigraph of their doomed romance, because Sansa doesn’t say anything else to him, not even goodbye. She just gazes at him with an expression that an optimist might almost call love. But Jon is a cynic, and he calls it pity.

Once again, she walks away.

Back at the counter, there’s a crackle as Davos turns the back of his newspaper. Jon forgot he’s been there the entire time. “How much did you hear?”

“Not much. Don’t worry,” the old man says. “But you know, she probably wouldn’t have left if you’d taken her to a nicer restaurant.”

 

 

**7.**

It takes Jon a moment to realize the gunshot wasn’t merely an echo from his dream.

He bolts upright in bed, drenched in sweat, heart galloping in his chest. A quick scan of his bedroom reveals nothing’s amiss- the moonlight casts everything a serene blue. Anyone else would have tried to fall back asleep, but Jon reaches over and retrieves the gun which he keeps in his nightstand drawer.

He rounds every corner of his small house with caution. The bathroom, the living room, the hallway are all empty, and Jon tries to tell himself that this but another symptom. He’s being paranoid, that’s all. Then he steps into the kitchen, and his bare foot lands in a warm liquid that’s thick and thin at the same time.

Jon’s been a killer for far too long to try and convince himself that it’s anything other than blood.

His eyes adjust to the dark. There are three figures in his kitchen. One stocky, one thin as a sapling, one somewhere in between. All three are masked. At least two are armed, and by the way they carry their guns, Jon can tell they know how to use them.

Jon stops focusing on the intruders for a moment to glance at the kitchen floor. Ghost’s fur is especially bright in the moonlight, made even brighter with the contrast to the dark puddle of blood spreading out from the bullet wound in his head. But not all the blood is Ghost’s, Jon realizes. His muzzle is crimson, and one of the intruders- the biggest one- is clutching his arm like he’s been bitten.

“You fuckers killed my dog,” Jon says, gun still raised, finger poised on the trigger.

“A message from Littlefinger,” the skinny one says, rough, like he’s trying to disguise his voice. “This is what happens to people who go against him-”

“Shut up, Pyp.”

The black ski mask might hide Pyp’s features, but it can’t conceal the shock in his eyes. Shock, quickly followed by fear. Jon points the gun at his chest. “Yeah, I know it’s you. And hello to you, too, Edd.” He then trains the gun at Edd, who begins to lower his own. Then he aims at Grenn. “Lovely evening, Grenn. I see Ghost got you pretty good.”

“Goddamnit, I told you he was going to be able to tell it’s us!” Edd hisses.

“We were supposed to gone by now, he was never supposed to see us,” Pyp says. “We really didn’t want to do this, Jon, but Littlefinger made us-”

Through teeth gritted from the pain, Grenn says, “It’s nothing personal. Just business.”

“You killed my dog, I’d say that’s pretty fucking personal,” Jon says. “How much is he paying you to do this? Exactly how much am I worth to you?”

“And how much does he pay you to kill people?” Grenn argues. “You’re not any better than us. You know it’s always been about the money.”

“It’s _not_ about the money-”

“So what, you don’t care about the money, you do it out of the goodness of your heart? You like it? Murdering in cold blood? That doesn’t make you noble, that makes you a sick bastard.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Jon retorts. “But I wouldn’t say it, if I were you, considering I’ve got you at gunpoint.”

“It’s three to one,” Pyp says. His voice is raw, and his hands are shaking. Jon was the one who taught him to shoot, back at basic. They were only eighteen years old. Jon wonders how the hell they ended up here.

“Go,” he orders. The men who he once considered brothers hesitate, and he repeats himself, “ _Go_! Grenn’s going to bleed out if you don’t get him to a hospital soon.”

They file out slowly, Grenn leaning on Edd. They don’t lower their weapons and they walk out facing Jon, like they’re afraid he’ll shoot them in the back the moment they turn around. Jon supposes it’s not an unreasonable suspicion. Before they reach the door, Edd asks, “Why?”

Jon replies, “Because I’m such a stand up guy.”

 

 

Jon is shoveling the last of the dirt onto Ghost’s grave when the black cell phone rings. He drives the shovel into the earth with a particularly forceful thrust, then reaches into his back pocket. He’s about to snap the damn thing in half and throw it deep into the desert when he remembers that it’s the only way Sansa knows how to reach him. And if Littlefinger figured out that Jon killed Ramsay, he might have deduced that Sansa was the one who bid him to do so.

Jon doesn’t allow himself to consider that Littlefinger might not have figured it out at all. That Sansa might have simply told him. He answers the phone. “Yes?”

“Thank God you’re alive,” Sansa sighs. “You weren’t picking up, I was terrified. Listen, you’ve got to get out of your house, go somewhere safe, I just found out Petyr’s sending men after you…”

“They already came. They killed Ghost. Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m fine. Oh my God, I’m so sorry about Ghost.”

Jon wrenches the shovel out of the ground, returns it to the toolshed, and begins to cross his yard back to the house. “How he find out? Your husband. You said he wouldn’t find out.”

“When he went to the funeral, he was speaking to Roose about how Ramsay died, and Roose said it was the best hit he’d ever seen… Littlefinger put two and two together. He’s smart, and there are only so many hitmen in the south.

Jon cradles the phone to his ear as he washes his hands in the sink. Then he goes to his bedroom, unlocks his safe, and takes out the bag he uses for work. He methodically cleans his guns, checks his supply of bullets. “Is he home right now?”

“Yes. He’s so angry-”

“Sansa, listen to me. You need to get out of the house, as soon as you can.”

“What? Jon, _no._ Do not come here, don’t you dare, you don’t know what you’re stepping into.”

“Thought I was the best hitman in the south.”

“He’s going to kill you! What am I supposed to do if he kills you?”

“Sansa, I’m telling you to leave the house now.”

“And _I’m_ telling _you_ that you’re being a reckless idiot! You won’t be able to get close enough. I can- I can do it instead.”

The gun Jon’s been holding slips from his fingers onto the bed. “What?”

“Let me do it. I’m the only one who can get close enough. Petyr trusts me.”

“Sansa, you can’t do that. I don’t want you to have blood on your hands because of me.”

“It’s not just for you. I have plenty of reasons of my own to want him dead. I can do this. I’m going to do this. But you can help me- if I give you a list of names, and addresses, can you take care of them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Petyr’s head of a massive system. There are certain individuals, people who are second-in-command. They know too much, and they’re going to ask questions when he dies. If we take care of them, the whole system will collapse. It’s just four or five names. But you need to do it as quickly as you can-”

“I can do it.”

Jon seizes a pen, writes the information Sansa provides on his arm. “Stay safe, please,” she tells him. “And trust me.”

He can’t help but remember that she said her husband trusts her.

 

 

**8.**

By the end of it, exhaustion reduces Jon to the most basic of desires. Instinct tells him to go home, so he drives through the night and stumbles through the door of his little house just as the sun is rising. Force of habit sends him to the kitchen sink, where he splashes water on his face, tries to remove the blood from under his fingernails. There’s a petty skirmish between fatigue and thirst, but exhaustion wins when he drinks straight from the faucet, too exhausted to find a glass. He moves to the bedroom, casts off his filthy clothes, collapses on the bed. It’s still unmade from when he was woken by the gunshot. He flips open the black cell phone and calls Sansa. All he says is, “It’s done.”

 

 

**9.**

_PROMINENT LOCAL BUSINESSMAN DIES._

It’s hardly front-page news. As far as the general public is concerned, Petyr Baelish was a successful, if slightly seedy, entrepreneur, who tragically committed suicide, leaving behind a young widow and a sizable inheritance.

There are no obituaries for the five other individuals who died the same night as Littlefinger. Jon made sure that their bodies wouldn’t be found any time soon.

“If you’re done with that, could I have it back?” Davos asks. Jon slides the newspaper across the counter, and Davos picks it up, turns to the crossword page. “You’re here early tonight,” he remarks.

“Yeah, it’s been a weird day.”

“How so?”

“Busy.” First Jon had to drive out to a nearby reservation. He parked by the side of the highway, and made the rest of the journey by foot, hiking through the wilderness until he reached the river. He checked one last time that all of his weapons had been wiped clean of fingerprints, then tossed the bag into the water.

After that was done, he went back to the house and packed up the rest of his belongings. Granted, that didn’t take very long. He didn’t own much- all of the boxes fit into the back of car. Then he handed over the key to the little house to the landlord.

He stopped for lunch before making his way to the animal shelter. His new dog- a puppy, really- is sleeping in his lap now while Jon drinks his coffee. “Have you decided on a name for the little guy yet?” Davos asks.

Jon shakes his head. “Listen, Davos,” he says. “I don’t really know when I’m going to see you again. See, I’m moving back north.”

“Really? Well, that’s a damn shame. I’ll miss you, kid.”

“Yeah, you’ve been good company, Davos. I’m glad I met you.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight. I’m just waiting for someone.”

“I think _someone_ has arrived,” Davos says, tilting his head in the direction of the door. Jon turns to see Sansa step into Castle Black.

He slides off the stool, sets the dog down on the ground, and barely takes two steps forward before Sansa flies into his arms. She doesn’t say anything; neither does he. They don’t need to.

He catches her; she wraps her arms around him so tight his ribs might break. She sags against his chest; he breathes in her scent. She nuzzles her face in the crook of his neck; all of his worry is washed away by her presence. Jon can’t say how long they simply hold each other. Eventually Sansa pulls away slightly, still encircled in his arms. She clasps Jon’s face in her hands and looks at him the way she did the first time- as if he is her favorite work of art, and she could gaze at him endlessly. “Are you all right?” she asks.

He nods. “What about you?”

“I will be. Eventually.”

The dog trots over and begins to nip excitedly at Sansa’s ankles. She swoops down to pick him up and coos, “Oh my goodness, look at you, aren’t you adorable?”

“I thought you could name him,” Jon suggests.

“Really?” Sansa concentrates very intently on scratching the dog’s ears as she says, “You know, it’s okay if you want to change your mind.”

“About what?”

“I know we agreed to head north together but it was a really… fraught time. And I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, and feel obligated to watch over me.”

“Sansa, I meant what I said.”

“I know but-“ She lowers her voice to a whisper, and hands the dog back to Jon, as if she doesn’t trust herself to hold it. “I killed my husband. I can understand if you don’t want to… be with me, after that.”

“He deserved it.”

“I was the only person he trusted. The only person he loved. And I betrayed him.”

“Sansa, do you know how many people I’ve killed? I don’t think any less of you because of what you did.”

She lets out a breath that could be a laugh or a sob, then sharply inhales to regain control of herself. She smooths her hands over the skirt of her black dress, trying to calm herself. “I didn’t have time to change after the funeral. I was dealing with the lawyers for hours, but I think everything’s mostly settled now. I can take care of everything else over the phone.”

“So do you feel ready to go?”

“Yeah.” She picks up the dog, who ecstatically licks at her face. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
